


Petals in the Wind

by Rroselavy



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-01
Updated: 2010-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 08:29:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rroselavy/pseuds/Rroselavy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanzo succumbs to temptation on a sultry spring day underneath a weeping cherry tree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petals in the Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [epiphanytiff](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=epiphanytiff).



He isn't patient by nature. And to be left cooling his heels while the Seiten scripture drifts further and further away is maddening enough, in itself.

But added to that are not one, but two more responsibilities--on top of the mountain of paperwork that is placed on his desk every day--along with the expectant eyes of the abbot and lesser monks alike, all waiting for him to say something suitably profound, something that reflects the importance of his office. It's enough to make even the most peaceful monk homicidal, and Sanzo's enlightened enough to know that he will probably never reach that level of equanimity.

He doesn't know how Koumyou managed to handle all the mindless day-to-day minutiae with placid indifference, though Sanzo has an idea that his master's penchant for tobacco and alcohol had probably helped him maintain his cool demeanor.

Sanzo had thought to steal a few minutes of solitude from his responsibilities under the low branches of a weeping cherry in full bloom, seeking to clear his mind with the one pastime from his childhood that he can still stomach: origami. The skill that Koumyou taught him is usually a fail-safe against the oppressive responsibilities of his position that sometimes threaten to crush him. Usually, the simple, mechanical effort of folding paper into razor-sharp edges serves to evoke his master's serenity and transfers that tranquility to his own raw nerves. But he's still too agitated, and so he's abandoned the orange paper he brought with him after creasing just one airplane. It sits forlornly amid saw-blades of grass and a scattering of bruised petals.

It's an unusually hot day for mid-spring; the air hangs sultry and heavy and still. Even the snowy blossoms that hang in bunches look wilted by the heat. He's shrugged out of the sleeves of Koumyou's robe and rolled it down to his waist, and now a bead of sweat trickles between his shoulder blades underneath the black silk sheath he's wearing, prickling his skin as it descends. He sits ramrod straight in a half-lotus, his eyes closed as he futilely tries meditation to clear his mind of intrusive thoughts and petty annoyances.

He's sure he wasn't as patently annoying as the demon-child the Sanbutsushin have tied to him, nor as doe-eyed and ingratiating as the student foisted upon him by the abbot. It just isn't possible. Yes, he was grateful to Koumyou for taking him in and raising him as his own son, but Sanzo would like to think that he didn't ogle his master with that same look of utter adoration which Go Dougan gazes upon him--like he's some succulent piece of fruit, or something. It's similar to the way Goku moons over his food and equally as unnerving.

And he'd like to believe that Koumyou Sanzo never had any doubts about the nature of their relationship, that his master's feelings toward him had been unambiguously paternal, not confused, and definitely not mired in hormone-soaked wet dreams. That's at the heart of Sanzo's ruminations; _muichi motsu_ makes no allowances for physical desire, and the need that Sanzo is fighting threatens to eclipse his master's most fundamental lesson. He feels an old, familiar ache in his chest and he misses Koumyou acutely; in his mind's eye he returns to a perfect summer afternoon years earlier and watches an orange airplane sail, weightless, against a deep cerulean sky.

The tree's branches creak, and Sanzo opens his eyes under a cascade of white petals fluttering to the ground.

"There you are, Sanzo-sama! I've been looking all over for you!" Go Dougan steps through the curtain and into Sanzo's refuge. He's carrying a tray with a pitcher and a tall glass. Sweat encases the ceramic vessel, and Sanzo can hear the tinkle of ice cubes as Dougan descends into a deferential kneeling position in front of him. He places the tray between them and scans the sheaf of brightly colored paper and the miniature plane without remark before he bows his head, waiting patiently for his master's command.

Sanzo knows that Dougan will sit there motionlessly for hours, until long after his feet and legs have lost feeling, if that is what his master wishes. The thought appalls Sanzo, but also fills him with a heady sense of power, the same kind he has felt staring down the barrel of his gun at some would-be attacker. It's addicting.

Sanzo remains still, engaging in a silent battle of wills, his eyes taking in Dougan's delicate features. His jet hair is pulled back in a chaste ponytail, but loose tendrils are pasted to his face. His cheeks are flushed and his rosy lips are parted slightly. Sanzo swears under his breath as his body reacts to the picture before him; he swears Dougan's actions are calculated and deliberate, meant to provoke him.

"Well?" he growls, a sense of satisfaction rising in him when Dougan's eyelids fly open in surprise and he lifts his head. His dark eyes are magnified behind the lenses of his glasses, giving him an even more waif-like appearance.

It's then that Sanzo notices the bruise on one cheek. The rage that's always burbling as a swift undercurrent to his waking hours threatens to explode as all possible reasons for such a mark steamroll through his mind. None of them are enough to soothe him; Dougan's welfare, whether he wants it or not, is his responsibility, and that blemish mocks him as a blatant reminder of how inadequate a job he does.

"What happened?" he asks roughly.

Dougan's expression turns perplexed, and his head tilts to the side. He's often borne the brunt of Sanzo's temper, and Sanzo wonders if it's nervousness that sets Dougan reciting his actions up to the point he invaded Sanzo's solitude.

"I looked for you in your office, Master, then I looked in the grand hall, the lecture hall, and even your private quarters. Finally I asked Goku--"

"That's not what I meant," Sanzo interrupts, his irritation growing. "How did you get the bruise?"

"Bruise?" Dougan echoes, and then busies himself with the pitcher, pouring the liquid into the glass--lemonade from the looks of it. He shifts the tray to his side, leaving the glass at the near end, within Sanzo's reach.

"Yes, the one here." Sanzo leans forward, coming to his knees. He extends his arm, his hand sliding underneath Dougan's damp hair, thumb skimming over the purple mark under his eye.

Dougan stills.

"I thought you might like some lemonade. I made it myself," he murmurs, his careful avoidance convincing Sanzo that he's hiding something. His fingers twitch against the skin at the nape of Dougan's neck. It's moist with sweat and a disturbing thought encroaches, a longing to lick his tongue over the smooth flesh, to taste the saltiness he knows he'd find there. Sanzo's eyes drop to the slice of skin he can see between the lapels of Dougan's robe; it must have loosened during his hasty search mission. His creamy skin is glistening, and suddenly the origins of the bruise aren't that important to Sanzo.

"I was sparring," Dougan replies softly, then more defiantly: "I wanted to prove to you that I'm strong enough."

Sanzo closes his eyes and lets out a breath, but he can't find it in himself to be angry over Dougan's admission. In his mind Dougan will never be strong enough, because the strength Sanzo speaks of when he refuses to allow Dougan to join him on his missions is an inner one--the kind one is born with, not the kind that comes with practice.

"Please don't be angry with me, Master."

Dougan carefully removes Sanzo's hand from its position and slips his own hand underneath it to wrap around Sanzo's fingers. It's an intimate gesture, made more so when he bows to briefly rest his forehead against the back of Sanzo's hand before he lets it go. After the provocative display, Dougan rests his hands on his thighs, his head remaining bowed. A rivulet of sweat slides down his nose and dangles at the tip. Sanzo watches it grow plump, then elongate as gravity claims it.

It's suffocating, but Sanzo can't blame the weather alone; this close to Dougan, he can feel his body heat, smell the earthy mix of his sweat and the lavender soap that he uses. Sanzo doesn't want to admit it, but he's become a connoisseur of Dougan's scent and, even more reluctantly, he acknowledges the way his body responds to the familiar odor with a good deal of interest.

Dougan raises his eyes, then lowers them quickly under Sanzo's steady gaze. Around them the atmosphere is hushed, weighed down by the heavy air. Sanzo picks a petal off his exposed shoulder and lets it flutter to the ground. The ice in the glass cracks and then resettles. Dougan is waiting for him to say something; he'll wait there all day, and Sanzo has half a mind to leave him stewing.

Instead, he reaches his fingers into the glass and grabs an ice cube with the intention of sucking on it. But somewhere between the glass and his mouth, his hand takes a detour and he presses the cube to the exposed hollow of Dougan's chest, then slides it up into the notch of his collarbone, along the side of his throat, his jaw...and then, finally, over his plump lips, and presses it between them. The look on Dougan's face is a marvel to behold--a mixture of hunger and hope, and Sanzo's body sings its response; the fine hair on his arms and the nape of his neck stand up. He brushes the tips of his fingers over those lips in a slow caress.

"I'm not," he says finally, though the words seem redundant. Dougan sighs, and warm and ice-cooled breath waft around Sanzo's fingers. They slide over Dougan's jaw and hold his chin firmly as Sanzo closes the distance, covering Dougan's lips with his own. Dougan's mouth is still cool from the ice, but it warms up almost immediately as the kiss deepens.

He can't believe he's doing this. Even though they are sheltered by the tree's branches--many of them drag on the ground--it's only the barest of screens; anyone who is remotely curious would be able to see them. That thought is liberating to Sanzo, almost as if a small part of him _wants_ to be spied upon. Because, if they are caught, then Dougan will be removed from his position, and all the temptation that he's come to represent will leave with him.

Only Sanzo's not sure that's what he wants, really.

What he does want, at the moment, is to push Dougan's face into the soft grass, to part his ass cheeks and slide his dick deep inside, to pound into him until long after they've both come, long after he's become numb from the effort. He wants to prove to himself that if he can scratch this itch just once, then he can be done with it.

Dougan pulls away, breathless.

"Sanzo-sama!" he whispers, and Sanzo's not sure if it's shock or lust that drives the timbre in his voice. His dilemma is answered when Dougan surges forward. Their mouths meet again, and there is an awkward second until Dougan tilts his head and they fit together perfectly.

Dougan parts his lips and his tongue skims over Sanzo's. The feeling is indescribable, but it sends a jolt descending Sanzo's midline, straight to his balls. It's unexpected--the intensity of the kiss and Dougan's soft insistent mouth urges Sanzo to press forward. It's clumsy, too--teeth bump against lips and tongues collide in their hurry to taste each other.

Dougan tastes _good_. Sanzo doesn't know why he's surprised by that, but he is, and suddenly the kiss, even with his tongue invading the intoxicating recesses of Dougan's mouth, isn't enough; he needs more contact. He grips the lapels of Dougan's yukata then roughly yanks them apart.

Dougan's reaction is immediate; he scrambles hurriedly away from Sanzo, knocking into the tray, but he catches the pitcher before it tips over. Sanzo manages to save the glass, carefully setting it right. Their hands bump together; Dougan withdraws his as if he's been burned.

"Master!" His eyes are wide and have a wild look to them; his glasses are now askew on his nose. For a few seconds Sanzo thinks that he's overstepped the line--done to Dougan what he's killed others for attempting to do to him. He's assaulted him. Sanzo bows his head as he tries to process what's just happened, how he could have misread Dougan's intentions. His eyes focus on the rise and fall of Dougan's chest, carefully avoiding the dusky bud that peeks out from under the opened robe.

"Someone will see us!"

Sanzo stifles the grin that threatens to form as relief washes over him.

"So?"

He wonders whether Dougan will rise to his challenge; he has more to lose. Though, maybe not, Sanzo reflects. Rumors already abound, just as they had when he was Koumyou's charge. Dougan bites his bottom lip as if he's weighing the pluses and minuses.

Irritation grows, threatening to engulf the pleasant burn of Sanzo's arousal. And then Dougan takes off his glasses, folds them neatly and lays them on the tray. He reaches for his obi and deftly unfastens it.

Sanzo swallows hard. It's a mundane gesture--one that he's seen thousands of times, but no one's ever done it for him, certainly not with this intent. It's about the most erotic thing he's ever seen.

Dougan takes Sanzo's hand and flattens it against his chest. His heart is thumping crazily underneath Sanzo's palm, and he's trembling. Sanzo pushes him away, leaning forward as Dougan leans back until he is lying on the grass and Sanzo is stretched out beside him. He lets his hand trace around the aureole of one nipple and feels the skin pucker under his finger pad. The most exquisite moan bubbles from the back of Dougan's throat, but he quickly stifles it with the back of his hand.

Sanzo dips his head and runs his tongue experimentally over the tight bud, and the moan drops an octave, into a needy groan. Dougan's hands cradle his head, silently pleading for more. He trails his tongue across the hollow of Dougan's chest to lavish attention on his other nipple. Dougan's grip tightens painfully, and it's Sanzo's turn to groan; he captures the sensitive flesh between his teeth and bites down, flicking his tongue over the trapped nub.

"Master, please," Dougan moans, his back arching off the ground.

Sanzo lifts his head, slipping from Dougan's grasp to sit up, taking care to read Dougan's expression. His pupils are huge and his cheeks are flushed, his lips pink and swollen from the kisses. Sanzo reaches into the glass again, this time applying the ice cube to the nipple he's just been tormenting. The rushed _Ohhhhh!_ that escapes Dougan's lips causes Sanzo's dick to twitch. He grabs Dougan's hand roughly and rubs it against his crotch. And fuck if that doesn't feel dirty and sublime.

Dougan needs no more instruction. His hand wends its way through the folds of Sanzo's robe, and he hurriedly thumbs open the button that fastens Sanzo's jeans.

"Let me take care of you," he implores, his voice husky. His hand hovers over the tip of Sanzo's dick; he can feel the heat radiating from it. Sanzo's hips thrust of their own will, and he hisses out a breath as he makes contact with Dougan's palm. The sensation is exquisite--far more arousing than when he's jacked off into his own hand. He leans back, letting his arms support him, and Dougan parts the material, revealing Sanzo's erection.

Sanzo watches, mesmerized, as Dougan's head descends, his mouth wide open. And holy shit, it's like nothing he's ever felt when Dougan's lips close around his shaft, and it's all Sanzo can do to keep from moving, from pushing all the way into that moist suction until his dick hits the back of Dougan's throat. Sanzo's hands claw into the soft earth beneath them, and he tears his eyes away from Dougan's bobbing head, tipping his chin up to gaze at the canopy of soft cherry blossoms and the shocking blue expanse of sky.

He bites his lip hard to keep from crying out when Dougan's moves intensify and his hand slips inside Sanzo's jeans to fondle his sac. Sanzo's breaths come in ragged gasps as his arousal soars.

And then, _Oh Gods_, he's coming, his spend pulsing into Dougan's mouth, the pressure of Dougan's thumb at the base of his cock between his balls dizzying. He loses control and his hips piston into the fantastic heat and friction. When he finally can stop himself, he hazards a glance down at his student. Dougan's hips are frantically gyrating against the earth; Sanzo considers watching him get off, but a pang of guilt prevents him from enjoying that image.

"Dougan, sit up," he urges, caressing Dougan's dark hair, and then he helps him get positioned in between his legs, Dougan's back to his chest. He slides his hand under the waistband of Dougan's undershorts and squeezes his length in slow, languid strokes, smearing precome over the crown with his thumb. Dougan's head falls back on Sanzo's shoulder; his lips and then teeth graze Sanzo's jaw, and he murmurs something unintelligible against his neck. Sanzo's other hand travels the length of Dougan's torso, mapping out the contour, every dip and jut as his ribcage expands and contracts with each breath. He feels solid in Sanzo's embrace, not like the fragile boy Sanzo knows him to be. Dougan's breath hitches and Sanzo feels his hot seed coat his fingers. He mouths over the rise of Dougan's shoulders and then sinks his teeth into the muscular ridge, and Dougan goes limp against him. They remain like that for a few minutes--Sanzo's lips worrying the skin at the juncture of Dougan's neck and shoulders--both basking drowsily in the aftermath. A breeze stirs the tree's branches, sending another cascade of petals scattering in swirling eddies.

Surprisingly, Sanzo doesn't feel guilty. Instead, he feels as if a dam has broken inside of him; all the tension that he hadn't realized was bottled up has abated, and in its place a sense of peace has descended. He shifts, wrapping his arms around Dougan's waist, but not before folding the sides of his yukata over each other, covering him up. Dougan covers Sanzo's hands with his and sighs.

The quiet interlude is disturbed by Goku's voice in the distance, growing louder.

"Sannnn-zoh! Where are you?" he calls out. There's a rising panic in his voice that sets Sanzo on edge; he can only wonder what trouble the boy's gotten into.

"Shit," he grumbles, unfolding and zipping himself up. He clambers to his feet as Goku's form comes into view. Glancing at Dougan, Sanzo is relieved to see that he's just finishing up straightening out his robes.

"Go on, Sanzo-sama," Dougan says demurely. He picks up his glasses and adjusts them, his grey eyes level with Sanzo's gaze.

"Sanzo?" Goku calls out more tentatively.

"What is it this time?" he answers, giving Dougan one last glance as he parts the branches. Dougan's picked up the origami paper and laid it on the tray; Sanzo notices him slip the plane into the folds of his robe before he steps out to head off Goku's curiosity.

* * * * *

Sanzo watches an orange paper airplane drift effortlessly across a perfect azure sky, cavorting on invisible currents of air, before it suddenly drops like a stone. He secretes his gun back inside the folds of his robe and turns on his heel, his boots crunching over the hardscrabble loose fill of a dry riverbed. He almost stoops to pick the paper craft up, but thinks the better of it.

His ears are still ringing from the Smith and Wesson's report, and thankfully Goku knows better to say anything; Hakkai and Gojyo don't need to be enlightened, as far as he's concerned. Sanzo notices Goku's action, though; he picks up the airplane and pockets it. He's too sentimental for his own good, Sanzo snorts to himself.

In the end, he's been proven right--Go Dougan wasn't strong enough--but there's little comfort in the revelation. To the contrary, it fills Sanzo with feelings of dread and inexplicable loss. Images flash in his mind--endless nights of two boys rutting and exploring each other. He clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth, expelling the pictures along with the signs of weakness. He already carries the burden of one ghost from his past. Sanzo finds it fitting that Dougan, like Shuuei, has come to his final resting place courtesy of a bullet from his gun.

Sanzo wishes that Dougan could have abandoned his obsession and finished his training at Keiun, instead of choosing the path destined to bring about his self-destruction. Such a waste. As he climbs into Jeep, Sanzo wonders though, if, in that choice, Dougan was not alone.


End file.
